Fire at Night, Cold as Ice During the Day
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: He's carrying his body in the shore. And John is ready to join him. Because love took them away from each other and soon they will be together, forever. ANGST/DEAD CHARACTER. ONE-SHOT.


**Warnings: Death, mental illness, suicide attempts, violence. **

**Advices: Inspired by the song 'Fuego de noche, nieve de día' or 'Fire at night, cold as ice at day'. You can watch the video on youtube. **

**(Italics are parts of the lyric of the song. And the bold parts are the present moment.)**

* * *

><p>He's standing in the shore, carrying a dead body on his arms. His left shoulder hurts like hell, but he's not ready yet. He can't let him go. He thinks he will never do.<p>

John looks down at his lover's face. His skin is pale and cold, like ice. The ex Army Doctor cannot understand why he did that to himself. But he can still remember how everything started.

...

_Before the day comes,_

_And you return to your normal life,_

_You have to understand that between the two of us,_

_Everything has been pure and natural._

_..._

It had been months. Months of entirely pain between his legs. _Their_ legs. Because he needed to face the truth. Since they both escaped from that fake bomb and from Moriarty's hands, they had been in love. They were attracted to each other since they first met, but after that incident their feelings had exploded within them.

Every look, every single and slight touch was like fire to them. And they suffered from it for months. Neither of them wanted to make the first move. John admitted it was because Sherlock was 'Married to his work'. He didn't want to be in between what made the detective happy. He knew he was always in a queue in which crimes scenes and chasing criminals was at the top of the list for Sherlock.

And the only consulting detective in the world felt like John was going to reject him. Judge him. Or even move out. He knew John was 'fine' with him and his orientations, but even when the clues were in front of him, he couldn't say it. To Sherlock, John was better than him and John didn't deserve a man like himself.

It was impossible to not have those wet dreams in which they used to scream the other's name. It was impossible to not wake up with the need of a release with the door closed and almost covering their mouth to prevent the other from hearing their screams.

When they first met, no one stopped to tell John Holmes was a madman. Crazy. Psychopath. A heartless bastard. He denied everything. Since the start and even at the end, when it was clear his lover, flatmate, detective and friend had been a victim of his own mind.

"The mind is a very powerful weapon, John. It can kill or save you in an instant."

Sherlock's words were still within his head. That was the answer Sherlock gave to him after the pool incident.

There's people that love can't be given to them. Because he gave him love and Sherlock's mind did the rest. He couldn't stop it, or even prevent it. His mind, like a powerful weapon, killed him.

_There's some people that love can't be given to them._

John Watson didn't knew it, but he gave Sherlock what he had never ought to have, to possess.

Love.

After a long day running against a dangerous criminal along the cold streets of London, he realised if he wasn't doing it, Sherlock wouldn't. And once they closed their door at two-two-one B Baker Street, John took his hand.

They were very close to lose each other that day. If it hadn't been for John and his good aim, the killer would have stabbed Sherlock to death. He was close, very close. Just a few more inches, and he could have stabbed the detective's heart. But like in 'Study in Pink', like he named the first case they shared, John saved him from a certain death.

John removed the black leather glove from his long hand and kissed it, with his gaze on Sherlock's eyes.

...

_You, crazy obsession,_

_You have been mine,_

_Only one time,_

_Sweet irony,_

_Fire at night, cold as ice during the day._

He looks at him, to his eyes while kissing his hand. John is standing in the shore but he can remember those eyes. He always felt attracted to those grey and stormy eyes. But tonight, his eyes were white.

Sherlock's eyes are white.

...

While thrusting and hitting Sherlock's spot, John looked at his eyes. They were light grey, not stormy as they used to be. And John remembered that old expression everyone hears in his life: people's eyes are the doors to their souls. He was looking directly to Sherlock's soul. And he felt like heaven.

His lips, his pale lips were pink and they were all over his face. And his cheeks were red. It was the first time he saw him blushing. And he looked so well. John wanted to keep that moment for ever. He wanted to stop the world, the time, everything and just stay there over his love, over Sherlock and be there with him for ever.

_..._

_Before daybreak comes,_

_And you return to your normal life,_

_You have to understand that between the two of us,_

_Everything has been pure and natural._

The body he is carrying is light. He cannot even feel all the weight of his lover's body, because he had consumed himself. He should be heavier than that, because Sherlock Holmes had been a- he could not even finish his thought. Sherlock Holmes was more than everyone in the world.

...

But his crazy obsession started later. If it had been destiny, he would never know. But there wasn't any cases and Sherlock's mind had a bullet for him. He was like a time bomb and one day it exploded almost killing everything near him. Including John.

A few days later after their first night together, John arrived from work finding a crying landlady near the stairs. It was the first time he saw her like that. And before he could ask, the noises coming from upstairs revealed everything he needed to know.

Sherlock was sitting under the window wearing only his pyjamas, with his legs up to his chest and his arms curled over his knees. His hair was covering his eyes, and once John passed the door and the Detective noticed his presence he threw a vase that hit the mirror on the wall that was just inches away from the Doctor.

The ex Army Doctor covered his face with his hands just in time, but he could see Sherlock's hand covered with blood. There's no need to explain he tried to be close to him, but Sherlock took a piece of glass from the broken window and threatened John.

"Stay away from me!"

"Sherlock, calm down. It's me, John. It's me." John said softly.

John looked everywhere in just seconds, not leaving his gaze from his lover for more than one or two seconds. He must have been high to do what he did. But he never found the needle, or the cocaine. Sherlock wasn't high.

That night, the same night John planned to make love to Sherlock, he started to die.

Because everything that was going to happen next, was everything John couldn't prevent or stop.

When they made love for the first time - because they didn't have sex, they didn't shag, they didn't fuck, they _made love_ - John gave Sherlock what he believed was his most valuable possession: his medal, the medal the Army gave to him when he was invalided from Afghanistan. It was silver, star shaped medal with John's name on it. And with a silent kiss and warm smile, Sherlock pressed it tightly to his chest. He was going to treasure that medal for ever. Because it was John's. It was what invalided John back to London, to be with him.

Sherlock threw the glass to the floor and John ran to him. His hands and arms were bleeding, he had broken the window and all the glasses were over the floor with blood. Mrs Hudson, their landlady not their housekeeper, was going to be quite mad at them because of the stains on her carpet, but that was the last thing John could think of in that moment.

Holmes slept all that night for twelve hours, non stop. And the next morning he was calm and peaceful, watching crap telly as if nothing had happened before.

_Fire at night, cold as ice during the day._

Sherlock was a fire at nights, always demanding love and passion, but once the sun was up in the sky, he was cold as ice. And everything started all over again.

They were running out of milk and toast. And tea wasn't a proper tea without milk and toast. John took his wallet and before leaving to the nearest Tesco, he looked at Sherlock. He was lying flat on his back over the sofa, just staring at the ceiling. He was calm. Barely speaking a word. A voice, very inside his soul told him to stay. He could survive a tea without his milk and his toast, but he never knew now why he left Baker Street.

Why he didn't follow his instincts.

Because that night, Sherlock Holmes tried to commit suicide.

It was the second time in his life in which he had a row with a pin machine and the first time in his life he jumped into an old lady, making her drop her big purse and all her things.

...

_And I'm left here, without you,_

_Like a hurricane, furious and feverish,_

_So much passion, so much love oh, you,_

_Fire at night, cold as ice during the day._

The sea water is reaching his ankles now. Certainly, it was going to be a cold journey to eternity.

...

He knows now that destiny played a good pair of cards that day. Because shopping took him all the time Sherlock needed to fill the bathtub with cold water and cut his wrists. Both of them. And bury his body in the deepest of the water, making himself sure he wasn't going to survive.

When John arrived, everything was quite. But he could hear the water falling from the bathtub. And he looked at the sofa. It was empty. Sherlock was missing nowhere to be seen.

His instincts made him move fast. And once he reached the door, he couldn't believe what he was looking at. The cold water was falling to the floor, mixed with blood. With Sherlock's blood. The only thing outside the massive amount of water, was a few dark curls and his medal.

The doctors were wrong. They were lying. Sherlock wasn't crazy. Sherlock wasn't loosing his mind. Sherlock wasn't a mentally ill person. Mycroft doctor's were lying to him.

"He has all the symptoms, Dr Watson. We need to hospitalize him."

Hospitalize him.

It meant they were going to control Sherlock, lock him and keep him under the power of drugs. He didn't want that for Sherlock. But even when he was his lover, his partner, Mycroft Holmes had all the power over Sherlock on his hand. And no matter how much he begged, the next morning after the bath incident they locked Sherlock away from him.

Day by day, every single day he was there to visit him. The winter had gone, and all those mornings in which he was allowed to see him the sun was up in the sky. It was clear and blue, like his own eyes. How much time had passed since he last saw his reflection in a mirror? When Sherlock tried to hurt him, that awful and cold night, John couldn't face a mirror again.

When he arrived, Sherlock was already sitting on a green bench with his gaze lost in a random point of the grass of the clinic's garden. There was a female nurse sitting next to him, looking at him carefully and reading him a book. It was 'Grey's Anatomy' and she was reading him some lines when he interrupted them. She smiled at him and left, leaving them alone.

He stroked his hair softly, but Sherlock never looked at him. During all those painful days, John couldn't met his lover's eyes again. And he missed them.

His body was nothing of what used to be before. Sherlock was thin, very thin and his hair had grow and it was long enough to cover his grey eyes. The same eyes that John loved.

John took his hand and they walked along the garden. Sherlock had always been tall, but now he was smaller than John. His steps were always determined, firm on the ground.

Now Sherlock was like a small ghost.

His skin was pale with a slightly shade of pink but John could only see white. Not pale, white skin. And they didn't allow him to wear his expensive and tailored suits. He was wearing only a pair of boxers and a white coat that made only him look more ill than ever.

John talked, a lot. But there wasn't any response coming from the other man.

"Mrs Hudson will come tomorrow. Do you want to see her?"

Sherlock didn't respond. His mouth was barely open and droplets of saliva were falling from his mouth. John cleaned him with his hand and he tried to remove his dark curls that were falling over his eyes. He needed to see those eyes again, but Sherlock took his hand away from him, revealing the scars on his wrists.

His time was coming to an end, and he was going to say good bye when Sherlock raised his head and looked at one of the other patients there. And with an extreme force he ran to him and punched him hard on the face. John couldn't react until a few seconds after. He tried to take him away from the other poor man, but it was hard. He couldn't help but think how he had so much strength and be so thin and defenceless.

Two male nurses came after him and removed Sherlock from the ground. His long legs were shaking and he tried to hit the nurses too. Being a lot stronger than him, they took him inside the building. His eyes were full of tears which clouded his gaze. He didn't care, he just ran after his love. John couldn't see him, but he could hear Sherlock's screams.

"He has John's medal. My medal!"

They put him on a white and cold bed with belts for his hands, legs and head. They needed him to stay still to inject him the drugs to sedate him and keep him calm. John's face was pressed against the little window of the door, trying to stay with him, trying to be as close as he could be from Sherlock.

He kept screaming his name and those screams ripped John's heart.

...

The water is reaching his knees now, and the water is still cold. But the dead body he's carrying with his arms is colder than that. The wind is making his job moving his dark and curly hair, revealing a very pale forehead and a pair of closed eyes. If only he could see his eyes again...

...

Since that day, Mycroft's doctors forbade him to have visitors. And he fought against them, and even against the politician. But the only thing he could get was his medical reports and pictures of him. They locked him in a room, saying it was the best for him.

And a few days later he got the call he never expected.

He ran to the clinic. He didn't care about his clothes, or even his bad leg or his shoulder. He was going to make them pay for what they did to him.

John was determined to kill Mycroft and his doctors, the same doctors that assured him were the best in all the UK. Nothing in the world was going to stop him from kill them. Because _he_ was gone, and there was nothing he or they could do to bring him back.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.

When he found out about his death, John knew what he was holding tightly in his hand. They didn't touch him. They had put a lot of rules between them but this time they were the ones not allowed to touch him.

And when John entered to that white room, his eyes, his blue eyes were full of tears again. They supposed to die together at a very old age, together. Not like that. Not that way.

His long and pale hand was still holding his medal.

The medal that invalided him from Afghanistan.

The medal he gave to him after they made love for the first time.

The medal that was floating in a bathtub when he tried to kill himself.

The medal that sentenced him to be locked away from his love.

...

_And I'm left here without you,_

_Like a hurricane, furious and feverish,_

_So much passion, so much love, oh, you,_

_Fire at night, cold as ice during the day._

That medal was in his hand and now is on his neck. The seawater in now up to his chest. He looks down and kiss his lips and those eyes.

He's far away from the shore. He's now with Sherlock, together. As they always should have been, together.


End file.
